


Critical but Stable Condition

by Englandwouldfall



Series: Eat, review, love [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Birthdays, But maybe not all of them on one day..., Chef Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, Food, Food Critic Castiel, Food as a metaphor for everything, Humor, M/M, Panties as a metaphor for SOMETHING, Restaurants, Romance, Writer Castiel, dean deserves nice things, relationship freak outs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-08-23 06:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Englandwouldfall/pseuds/Englandwouldfall
Summary: The one where harried food critic Castiel accidentally buys his chef boyfriend twelve pairs of women's underwear, a food processor, a year's supply of coffee, a season of Dr Sexy and six pairs of socks to distract himself from this sudden influx ofvery serious feelings.(Dean may have a point about the 'overcompensating' thing).





	1. Chapter 1

Castiel tastes the sauce with his thumb and frowns, because there's something not right about it that he can't put his finger on. He tries to project himself into critic mood rather than cook mode, but it's useless. He can read faux emotional states from cooking errors, but he can't hone into the knitty gritty and declare _not enough salt_ with any degree of confidence. The sauce tastes like Castiel is apprehensive and unsure and overthinking everything, which may in fact translate to too much salt, or too little seasoning. He needs Dean to translate his abstract notions into something helpful. _You gotta trust your mouth, Cas, don't think too hard. This parts all about instinct. It's emotional. Just, taste. What do you feel?_

He could add pepper? More parsley? 

“Well, that day was a total shitshow --” Dean’s voice carries from the the doorway of their apartment, even though he is very much _not_ supposed to be home right now. 

“You're supposed to be at work,” Castiel says, hurrying out of the kitchen to block Dean's usual path towards coffee, or beer, depending on the point of the day. At five thirty, it could go either way. 

“Uh, you know it's my birthday right? You're supposed to be nice to me and all that junk,” Dean says, with a lopsided smile that makes Castiel's chest warm up slightly. Dean is lovely, even when he's objectively disgusting from the heat of the kitchen after the shortest shower a human has ever taken this morning, after Castiel wished him a happy birthday thoroughly enough to make him exceptionally late. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, impatiently, “Happy birthday. Why are you here?” 

“To see my freaking charming boyfriend,” Dean says, then he hoans on his skin just below his earlobe with his bright green gaze. Dean swipes a thumb across his skin, coming away with sauce. Dean tastes it because he is impossible and wonderful. “More pepper,” Dean says, mouth hinting a smile. 

“You cannot tell from _that_.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, pressing his lips to the bolt of Cas jaw, swiping a tongue over the skin like this is a normal way to greet someone after you’ve inexplicably returned from work early. Castiel curls a hand against his chest, anyway, because… _Dean_. Dean pulls back and smirks at him. “You're right, man. Needs more everything -- pepper, salt and parsley.” 

“Really?” 

“What is she? A priest’s daughter. Ramp it up, Cas. Add sex appeal.” 

“You just like discussing sex,” 

“Guilty,” Dean grins, nudging him with his hip. “You cooking me dinner?” 

“No,” Castiel says, “Now go away.” 

“Nu-uh,” 

“ _Now_ you establish healthy work life boundaries,” 

“Ah, don't bitch at me on my birthday, Cas.” 

“You seem very convicted of this belief that I care to celebrate the anniversary of your birth,” Castiel says, with his best attempt at his cool and collected face that Dean has been able to see through for a long time now. 

“Uh huh, whatever you say, Darlin’ --” 

"--- Really,” Castiel says, “Your brother said you prefer low key celebrations so I haven't prepared anything.” 

“I can smell pie,” Dean says , and heads for the kitchen. 

“There's no pie,” Castiel says, following him into the kitchen, even though it's useless and he’s not really committed to any of this being a surprise, anyway. He _told_ Dean to try and get off work on time (by which he had meant around nine PM, not _five thirty_ ) and… if Dean hadn’t have come home, he probably would overthought the ridiculous sauce to the point of ruining it. This is better. “ I got cake. That's what you prefer, right?” 

“Man, you wanted to pull off this not caring about my birthday crap, you shouldn't have gone to town on the birthday sex this morning.” 

“Your complaint is duly noted. It won't happen again next year,” Castiel says, stepping round his ridiculous, infuriating and lovely boyfriend in order to block the view of the oven. They’ve spoke carelessly about _next years_ like they were a given for a while, now, but there’s something about doing so right now that resparks the worry that seeing Dean had pushed down. 

“I was kind of hoping it would happen again next freaking hour.” 

“Is _that_ why you're home early?” Castiel asks, smirking at him a little, “Because you're horny and you think you get special treatment because it's your birthday?” 

“The big three zero, Cas,” Dean grins, bending down to assess the pie in the oven, peering past Castiel’s legs to leer at it. “But, no, work kind of sucked -- not in the fun way -- and then I remembered I'm the freaking boss, so.” 

“Did Charlie make you go home?” 

“Yeah,” Dean concedes, straightening up to look at him with a broad smile. God, he loves this man. Those smiles. The fact that he can very much envision the conversation that must have happened before Charlie finally ordered him out of the kitchen. “What's going in the pie, Cas?” 

“It's not for you,” Castiel says, “I'm baking it for deprived children.” 

“Uh uh.” 

“I'm very busy writing, Dean, go away.” 

“It's cute when you try and be annoying.” 

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Castiel says, “And now you're going to try and interfere.” 

“Won't,” 

“Dean, you already told me how to season my sauce and I can see you trying to turn the oven down without me noticing,” Castiel says, sending a pointed look to Dean’s hands; one resting against the oven temperature dial, the other just millimeters away from Castiel’s hip on the kitchen counter. 

“Just... don't want it to catch.” 

“Go and watch TV, Mr Birthday,” Castiel says, “This pie will live or die by my hands.” 

“Will you let me stay in the kitchen if I pinky promise not to backseat drive?” Dean asks, presenting Castiel with his little finger like this is a reasonable way for adults to solve debates. That is Dean Winchester, though. A fully fledged adult who will insist on playing (and losing) rock, paper scissors to decide who should do the laundry, something fundamentally endearing leaking out of his every movement. 

“Fine,” Castiel concedes, offering his finger out to humour him. Dean’s smile widens. He is in a _very good_ mood today and it’s hard not to be swept up in it. “But you will allow to me look after you, Dean Winchester.” 

“Okay,” Dean grins, taking a seat at the breakfast bar and propping his chin up on his elbow as he watches him. Castiel turns down the oven despite himself. “Cas,” Dean says, after a few minutes of companionable silence have passed while Castiel reasons his sauce while trying not to overthink about any of it. “How the hell did you even get sauce on you freaking neck?” 

In the end, it's probably the best thing he's ever cooked, and he only asks for Dean’s assistance ten minutes before everything's ready, when the usual cooking related anxiety begins to press in on all sides. 

Besides, it’s good for Dean’s ego to play the knight in shining armour, even for his own birthday dinner. 

* 

“Presents now,” Castiel declares, after they've spent enough time sat on the sofa, sleepily full, for the gnawing worry about Dean's birthday to come crawling back to him. Castiel is bad at presents, and it's only just been Christmas, and for some reason that he is not yet ready to discuss he has felt nothing but nauseating nervousness about this whole day since he got back from visiting his brothers for Christmas. Now, he wants it done with. He has taken two days off work to actually see Dean (damn Dean’s work schedule) and he has cooked and Dean looks happy and content and as worry free as Castiel has ever seen him, so perhaps they can slide past the issue of what to give a man who so persistently invests his happiness in other people rather than himself, and get the whole thing done. 

“Uh, presents plural?” Dean asks, untangling his arm from round Castiel's shoulders to better the grip on his wine (Dean, for all his posturing about being a beer men, has excellent taste in wine and drinks it with dinner more often than not. Castiel bought his favourite bottle). “You know I _was_ kidding about giving a crap about my birthday --?” 

Dean smiles, all crinkled and lovely, at both the food processor (Dean never replaces any of his kitchen equipment at home, despite the fact that every time he sees this type of food processor on the TV adverts he starts talking excitedly about speeds and settings and six hundred other things Castiel does not understand) and a year’s subscription to fancy coffee. Dean is practical, but Castiel wanted him to have something nice too, because he's not very good at allowing himself luxuries in the way he lathers then on other people. 

“You know, this is kind of, uh, overkill right?” Dean asks, pleasant pink tinge to his cheeks, “Not that it isn’t awesome, but , uh, pretty sure I took you out for dinner and bought you a freaking book for your birthday and —” 

Castiel's birthday was several weeks after they started up their official relationship, and is an entirely different thing to this as far as Castiel is concerned. And it was an exceptionally good dinner.

“There's more,” Castiel says, some more of the dread beginning to creep up on him, but he... freaked out. He was in the shopping mall, which he detests , and he freaked out and he called Sam for help , and then he called Anna, and then he inadvertently lost his damn mind. 

“There's more?” Dean asks, eyebrows raising now. 

“I,” Castiel begins, but he might as well attempt honesty. “I panicked.” 

“This is panic?” Dean asks, looking at him slowly. If Dean has _this_ expression of confusion at this point in the game, Castiel doesn’t know what’s going to happen when the rest of it comes out in the wash, but… 

“Yes,” Castiel says, and really, it’s going to be easier to show him. Easier for Castiel to go back to their shared bedroom and dig out the rest of the gifts he purchased in the middle of his own (hopefully) premature mid-life crisis, to cross the room with all the bags in his hands and press the rest of Dean's gifts in his direction with a distinct sense of shame. “This is panic.” 

And, oh god, Castiel bought him panties. He'd lost any semblance of sanity by this point, and he doesn't remember how many pairs he bought. Had no idea what he was thinking when he bought the damn cheese grater, or the book on Japanese cooking (the one type of cuisine Dean has said, matter of fact, that he totally sucks at). He thinks he bought a series of Doctor Sexy and maybe two new shirts and definitely a pack of six pairs of black socks. 

Dean just looks at him. 

“I, wow. Okay,” Dean says, stopping all together after he's opened the third pair of fucking panties to look at him. “When you say, you panicked…?” 

“I didn't know what to buy you.” 

“So you --- bought freaking everything?” 

“I was stressed,” Castiel says, ringing his hands at the foot off the sofa. He’d been avoiding addressing _this_ conversation, bbecause these conversations never go well. Castiel gets too intense and too emotional about everything and it all ends up difficult and upsetting, but _then_ it leaked out into this crazed-shopping and his credit card bill. 

“I don’t get it,” Dean says, which is reasonable. Very reasonable. _This_ makes very little sense, and if Castiel had been thinking clearly enough he would’ve returned half of these damn presents before it was too late. “What are you… what are you panicking about? I thought … thought things were going pretty good.” 

“Exactly,” Castiel says, helplessly. 

“What? Cas, you know that I don’t really care about birthdays. Dinner would have been a pretty sweet deal, if you ask me,” Dean says, entirely honestly, and Castiel _knew that_. That was part of the fuel for this madness in the first place; the knowledge that Dean would consider Castiel cooking him dinner and a few beers with Sam and Charlie tomorrow more than sufficient to make him happy, even though Castiel is a terrible cook and Sam should probably find more time to see his brother every week, not just the one his birthday is in. He wants Dean Winchester to have endless good things. He wants him to have the best damnable kitchen equipment in their kitchen, at home, and he wants him to have exceptionally good coffee, and to embrace the part of himself that finds wearing women’s underwear hot, and to have his favourite TV show on tap (even though it’s terrible) and, most of all, he wants to be the one to _give these things to Dean_. 

“It's your thirtieth,” Castiel says, weakly, as though that offers anything bordering an explanation for _this_. 

“Yeah, I know. Sam got me the card.” 

“Most people freak out about this.” 

Castiel is still standing in front of him, awkward and anxious, but he’s not sure he can move. 

_He should not have started this conversation._

No, he should have started this conversation, but as a _conversation_. Not via the medium of excess gift giving and not on Dean’s birthday, because it could all go wrong, and that’s _probably_ what has left Castiel frantically practicing cooking and thinking himself into difficult corners that he’s needed Anna to help him out of. 

“And instead you freaked out for me?” Dean says, “Look, Cas, first time in my goddamn life things are pretty fucking good in all areas of my life. Sam's doing good, profits are steady, I got _you_. Pretty damn impressive turnaround from twenty nine, so. I'm good. Thirty is good. I'll take it.” 

“The… The scope of the birthday celebration was accidental,” Castiel says, more blurts out than anything, “But, Dean,” Castiel continues, mouth pulled into something and, what is he doing? Why is this surprising and wonderful man capable of leaving Castiel so idiotic? Dean called it wiring problems, once, and the description is apt. Dean has entirely broken his internal functioning. “I kept thinking about your sixteenth birthday.” 

Dean looks at him blankly. He has absolutely no fucking idea what Castiel is talking about. 

“You told me about it. About your father neglecting to come home -” 

“Dude, that was supposed to be a happy story about Sam.” 

“Your brother borrowing money from your food budget to purchase you a second hand Metallica record is not a happy story,” 

“Okay, when you put it like that, but -” 

“ - I wanted you to have nice things, but you are so very unmotivated by stuff , and I kept thinking about Christmas and….” Castiel trails off, because there’s nowhere else to go with this than the truth, even though it's paralysing and complicated and will probably implode. He wishes he was sat down, but now it feels too uncomfortable to do it. “I suppose it was supposed to be a gesture.” 

“A gesture?” 

“There's something I wanted to say.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, “Then say it.” 

Then _say it_. 

Castiel vehemently wishes that it was that simple. 

“I don't know _how_ ,” Castiel says, voice cracking slightly. 

“So you bought me a freaking food processor?” Dean asks, “Wait, this isn't some kind of apology, is it? I --- what happened at Christmas?” 

“No,” Castiel says, frowning, “No. I just… I missed you at Christmas.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, eyes slightly narrowed, resolutely not looking away from him. Castiel would very much like to hide in their shared bedroom, or go back in time and not mention the excessive amount of things he purchased in Dean’s honour by accident, or just _sit the fuck down_. “Right back at you. Just didn't realise the way to say that was twelve pairs of freaking panties -?” 

_Twelve pairs_. 

Castiel is utterly moronic. 

“Is there,” Castiel begins, “Oh. I really bought twelve pairs?” 

“Uh, going by the Victoria secret wrapping paper...” Dean says, gesturing at the pile of presents on his lap, some of which have slid onto the floor during this conversation. Castiel stands there and gapes at him for a few long moments and decides that it is _not_ the time to mention the fact that Dean recognises Victoria Secret wrapping paper, but to file it away for later. 

If they ever get past this conversation. 

“I don't mean I missed you, I mean that it was hateful that you weren't there.” 

“Cas, you're kind of freaking me out,” Dean says, evenly. A pair of black panties falls off his lap. “Like, a lot freaking me out.” 

“Why is this so difficult?” Castiel asks, frustrated and _still stood up_. “Dean, I love you. That's… That's all.” 

“No, it ain't. Cas. Talk to me.” 

“You'll become uncomfortable,” 

“ _This_ is making me uncomfortable.” 

Castiel feels vaguely ill. 

“I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable,” 

“I don't mean the freaky amount of women's underwear, dude, I mean the way you're clamming up like a… Like a clam. Or something. And, sit the fuck down, Cas,” Dean says, reaching out to tug on his arm, pulling him back towards the sofa. _Thank God_. 

“Dean,” 

“The last time someone I was dating bought me more than one freaking present for my birthday she was cheating on me, so….” 

This is not going as Castiel anticipated. 

“I'm not cheating on you.” 

“Damnit, I know that! That's not what I freaking meant, but this is starting to feel a lot like overcompensating.” 

Oh, god. 

He is. Castiel is overcompensating. He is overcompensating _hard_. 

He is his damnable sauce: apprehensive and unsure and overthinking. 

“I… I don't want to do another Christmas separately,” Castiel says, after a few long moments of silence while Dean waits him out. Dean blinks at the words when he finally speaks, gaze racking over Castiel’s skin. 

“I - okay? Well, we can try and do some scheduling next year -” 

“I mean, indefinitely.” 

“You mean, ever?” 

“Dean,” Cas says, frustrated, “I think this is going very well. Remarkably so, given our early history.” 

“Well, me too,” Dean says, scanning his face, his expression _softening_ slightly and… and, Castiel thinks he might have caught on to what Castiel has been chewing over in his head for weeks, but… _he can’t have_ , because there is no way that Dean would look so calm if he was even minutely aware of what’s been going on in Castiel’s head since Christmas . “You're talking forever, now. So this is a _future_ kind of conversation, huh?” 

Except, _maybe he has_. 

“I… Maybe,” 

“You're know you're kind of verbally constipated for a freaking writer,” Dean says, easily. “Cas. Talk to me. I'm not gonna get freaked out. What does this have to with Christmas?” 

“Gabriel was being profoundly irritating and Lilith was… It doesn't matter. They were loud and frustrating and I missed you, and it hit me that I wanted our relationship to be permanent. As in, I want to see your fortieth and your seventieth birthdays and… It's _soon_ , Dean. I was with Balthazar for three years it never occurred to me to consider retirement, so I bought you a food processor and cooked you dinner and I bought an obscene amount of women's underwear and I think there's a garlic crusher there somewhere and, Dean, I think I really alarmed the woman in the lingerie shop -” 

“No shit,” Dean snorts, reaching out to take hold of his hand. “You wanna like,” Dean says, looking remarkably like he's not squirming considering the grenade Castiel has just dropped into his birthday proceedings, via the medium of underwear. _Wonderful._ Dean runs a tongue unconsciously over his lips. “You… you wanna do that whole picket fence thing? With me?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, finally still. 

“Like, marriage and mortgages and that junk?” 

“I… I don’t know if I want to get married, but if I were to want to marry anyone… Then yes, it would be you.” 

“Okay,” Dean says, “Huh.” 

And _this_ is where it all starts to blow up in his face. When Dean looks at him and tells him he’s an imbecile, because they haven’t known each other for that long, and it at beginning it was so ridiculous and complicated and -- 

“Dean, please don't construe this as pressure, I'm just-” 

“- kids?” Dean interrupts and, and, _Dean is still holding his hand._

And… 

_Kids?_

“What?” 

“Is that something you want? If we're talking future here, let's talk future.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, chest tight. “Yes, I want kids.” 

The part of his brain that is still functioning stops him before he adds _with you_ onto the end of the sentence, but it is still very much implied. 

“Awesome,” Dean says. Castiel is very still, because he doesn’t know what will happen if he moves, or if he accidentally opens his mouth. “Couldn't work you out on that one.” 

Oh. 

“You… You have considered whether I’d want children?” 

“Six months might be a drop in the ocean to you, but this is like three months longer than my longest relationship ever, and that's not counting that whole bit when I was lying to you about everything but still kinda crazy about you,” Dean says. 

“You know I'm not that much older than you.” 

“I mean compared to Balthazar, Grandad,” Dean says with an eye roll, pulling Castiel closer to him on the sofa, right into the space next to his arm. “Pretty sure your first college boyfriend was longer than this, too.” 

“But,” Castiel says, his voice still a little strangled, “You’ve _thought_ about these things?” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, hand on Castiel's knee. “I mean, not like enough to stress buy nearly two weeks worth of freaking underwear, but yeah. You’re basically the best thing that's ever happened to me.” 

Castiel freezes. 

Dean shifts slightly and looks at him. 

“I mean, you gotta know that, right? I know we're not exactly the best freaking communicators about this stuff, but, I've literally never been this happy before,” Dean says, and the noise in Castiel's head goes very quiet. Completely and utterly silent. “Okay. So you didn't know that. Well.” 

“Me neither,” Castiel says, a little breathily. 

“Awesome,” Dean says, pulling Castiel's legs more or less into his lap before he kisses him, slow and easy. “Also, this is the most adorable freak out I've ever seen in my goddamn life. You --- did you say there was a garlic crusher somewhere amongst this crap?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, flushing slightly. “You hate washing yours up, and this one has a detachable compartment you can put in the dishwasher.” 

“Must be this one,” Dean says, reaching for a package that fell off his lap a while ago. It is not, in fact, the garlic crusher, but some razor maintenance kit that he bought at the end of his hellish shopping trip. “Uh, okay.” 

“You have that nice fancy razor your father gave you -” 

“ - what's this?” Dean asks, picking up something else. His smile is back now, with a vengeance, like he’s lit up with some secret joy locked in his chest and… and Dean didn’t freak out. He didn’t tell Castiel _no fucking way, dude_ and… and he is happy and Castiel is very _very_ happy right now. 

“Dean, must we do this? It's embarrassing.” 

“You want embarrassing, Sunshine, you try being chucked out your own damn restaurant by your big gay date in the middle of dinner service.” 

“I'm not big,” 

“ Oh, you're big in all the ways that count,” Dean grins, peeling the packaging off the next gift. Slaughterhouse five, with a limited edition cover. Castiel barely remembers buying it, but now Dean turns a raised eyebrow in his direction he does remember _why_. 

“You said it was your favourite book, but you gave Sam your copy when he went to Stanford.” 

“This game is fun,” Dean grins at him, eyes bright, “We’re taking at least half of it back, but --- I'm gonna open all the panties.” 

Castiel hides his face in Dean's neck and finds himself laughing despite of himself as Dean works his way through all of it, because… Castiel is ridiculous, and Dean sweet and kind and has wondered whether Castiel wants children. He says things like ‘big gay date’ out loud without freaking out, these days, and he rests a hand on Castiel's back as he gently mocks him for all his impulse purchase, and he is most definitely the love of Castiel’s life. 

“Okay,” Dean says, mouth soft as he opens the final package. “What's with the socks?” 

“You need socks.” 

“No, I don't,” 

“ Dean,” Castiel says, fumbling to pull Deans leg up on to the sofa, and removing his sock from his foot. “This has three holes in, it's turned grey in the wash and,” Castiel continues, reaching for his other foot, “It doesn't even match your other sock.” 

“These are going back.” 

“No,” Castiel says, “You can return the colour coded chopping boards but-” 

“Cas,” Dean says, caught halfway between a laugh and a wide smile, leaning over to retrieve his Victoria Secret purchases and throwing them more or less in his face, “Pick your favourite.” 

And Castiel is absolutely not going to turn that down. 

* 

Castiel wakes up alone, which is not unusual. The persistent and apparently ‘unavoidable’ prevalence of early mornings is probably Dean Winchester’s biggest flaw as a boyfriend; or at least, it’s a trait that he’s yet to ever find endearing. Especially given Dean considers a day and a half off in the middle of the week an adequate substitution for a weekend and even on those days still insists on waking up before Castiel would generally wake up on the days that he’s working at the office. He feels, very strongly, that it his mission in life to ensure that Dean actually sleeps (or at the very least, stays in bed) past nine AM at least once a month and he is prepared to use all moves in his arsenal to that goal, including that thing with his tongue, butchering the concept of breakfast in bed and hiding all the clocks and telling Dean that it’s still three AM. 

He has varying degrees of success. 

His record remains ten forty five, but he’d been hoping to push past the eleven AM barrier this morning in the name of continuing to celebrate Dean’s thirtieth birthday, so it’s highly irritating that he’s already up, given that it’s only - 

Ah. Half ten. 

And, _oh_ , Castiel bought Dean a food processor and three books, a subscription to fancy coffee, twelve pairs of painties, cooked him dinner and then told him that he wanted to have his children. Dean was remarkable lovely about his ridiculous freakout about the depths of his feelings (he has discovered, more and more recently, that Dean is an expert at dealing with Castiel’s personal brand of emotional baggage), and now -- 

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel says, wondering into the kitchen in a pair of Dean’s boxers and blinking owlishly at the surfaces because… Dean has cooked. Not cooked breakfast - although at least some of it is breakfast, and something smells cheesy and delicious and has made Castiel realised that he is distinctly hungry - but cooked, it seems, everything in the kitchen. 

“Uh,” Dean says, not looking up from where he is frantically chopping up the marrow Castiel is quite sure was not in the fridge when Castiel went to bed last night. In fact, he doesn’t remember most of these groceries being in their apartment, which means that Dean has been awake long enough both to cook enough to fulfil an entire service worth of orders, and to go to the shops to buy the ingredients. “Hey.” 

There is coffee, which is good. Vital. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, very evenly, after he’s drank half his mug of coffee and watched Dean move seamlessly from stuffing the marrow with bread crumbs, parmesan and pine nuts, to reaching for some kind of squash that Castiel is entirely sure Dean spent one evening in late autumn trying to teach him how to recognise the difference from some other kind of squash. _They’re a whole, freaking different shape, Cas, and they taste totally different. Come on. Open up, right, okay. Totally fucking different, right?_ “Is there a possibility that you’re belatedly freaking out about the conversation that we had last night?” 

“I,” Dean begins, pausing before he beheads the squash with much more enthusiasm than when he usually chops up vegetables. “No,” He finishes, in what is possibly the least convincing attempt at shaming being in a good head space since the incident where Castiel met Sam and Jess at Trickster Cafe when they both believed he was a woman. “No.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says, taking another sip of his coffee and watching Dean cube the squash with interest. “This is a lot of food.” 

“Yep,” Dean says, popping the p and not looking at him. The squash is tipped into a baking tray, seasoned with sage and salt before it joins the stuffed marrow in the oven. Castiel is relatively sure that there is a pie crust cooking on the bottom shelf and… Dean is lovely. He is an esquite, possibly mildly insane creature, who Castiel is very much in love with. 

He probably should have expected this. 

“Dean -” 

“ - I, shit, I need more cheese,” 

“You,” Castiel begins, then his mouth pulls into a smile that he can’t really help, “You need more than the four kinds of cheese I can see on the counter?” 

“I, uh, _goats cheese,_ ” Dean says, “For the squash. Otherwise it’ll … it’ll suck.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says, “Do you want me to go and buy you the goats cheese?” 

“Dude,” Dean says, finally turning to look at him. There’s a soft, grateful hue to his eyes that seems to acknowledge the fact that he is very aware that he’s being ridiculous and is glad that Castiel is humouring him rather than getting upset. “You’re not even a little bit dressed.” 

“This is an accurate observation.” 

“Asshole,” Dean says, affectionately, “I’m, uh, gonna go to the shop. You need anything?” 

“Is there anything left in the shop?” Castiel asks, mildly, “Except goats cheese?” 

“Don’t start with me, Mr _a dozen pairs of women’s underwear_.” 

“I would plead the fifth, but I am utterly unashamed about incriminating myself.” 

“This side of the morning, maybe,” Dean says, rubbing the back of his neck for a moment before he reaches for his jacket. He pauses to kiss Castiel before he double checks he has his car keys, which at least means that he hasn’t sunk so far into his head that Castiel should be concerned. 

“Wait,” Castiel says, pressing one of his reusable carrier bags in Dean’s direction and pulling him in for another kiss, just because. 

“Freakin’ hippy,” Dean mutters, accepting both the carrier bag and the kiss with a pleasing pink flush. 

“Dean,” Castiel begins. 

“ - Look, Cas, can we -” 

“ - is this food preserved for some specific purpose, or -?” 

“ Your freaking omelette is finishing under the grill. Put it in when I heard you waking up. Give it two minutes.” Dean says, with one of those charming smiles, before he kisses him again and leaves Castiel alone in the apartment with sixteen different dishes, all partially finished, spread out across the counters. 

It occurs to Castiel in a moment of real panic that the _oven is on_ and that Dean effectively left in charge of…. _whatever it is_ that he’s cooking, before he makes the executive decision to shut the oven door with his knee and ignore it. Dean is not cooking for anything but the sake of _cooking_ ; he will forgive him some burnt butternut squash. He has done so before (six times). 

Castiel tops off his coffee and narrows his eyes at the food scattered across the counters and… and, that’s Dean’s version of his mother’s three cheese omelette under the grill; pasta bake with baby zucchini hidden below the tray of mini baked potatoes Dean cooked for him, a month into their official relationship, to prove some point that Castiel can’t remember anymore; it _is_ the type of squash that Dean tried to teach him to differentiate between; Castiel dared him he couldn’t make anything worth eating out of the sad, overgrown marrow at the grocers the week he moved in. 

Castiel isn’t concerned that Dean is freaking out, because _he_ just spent the better part of three weeks freaking out, and because Dean told him in that, even, butter-lovely voice of his that he’d wondered whether Cas wanted children before and…. And Castiel’s freak out manifested in ridiculous, overblown gifts in lieu of words, and now Dean is re-cooking all the significant moments of their relationship which, from Dean, is more like a love confession than a love confession. 

Dean Winchester does not write sonnets, he cooks pie crusts and puts omelettes under the grill when he hears you begin to wake up. 

And Castiel is very content to sit at the breakfast bar, surrounded by dishes that Dean has lovingly and anxiously crafted, to drink his coffee and eat his omelette and wait for Dean to come back home and be ready to talk about this. With goats cheese, if he remembers his guise for getting out of the apartment for long enough to commit to the purchase. And one day, he thinks he _would_ like to marry Dean Winchester. To buy a house and have children and grow old together. 

It doesn’t seem nearly as alarming this morning. 

Then the doorbell rings, and Castiel remembers just after he’s opened the door, that in his crazed anxiety about Dean’s birthday, he organised a goddamn _birthday party_. 

“I,” Castiel says, suddenly aware that he’s wearing Dean’s underwear, nothing else and facing down Sam Winchester and Jessica Moore in the doorway, “Hello.” 

“Um, hey Cas,” Sam says, resolutely not looking downwards, “Is Dean, uh, decent?” 

“He went to the shop,” Castiel says, stepping back from the door and glancing round the apartment. There is an entire saucepan of risotto abandoned on the coffee table and a block of cheese inexplicably on the sofa, and Castiel doesn’t really know what to say to explain what is happening, or why he forgot about the semi-surprise birthday that he arranged in Dean’s honour. “He…. he’s been cooking.” 

“You don’t say,” Jess says, raising a stark eyebrow as she glances around the kitchen. 

“Everything okay, Cas?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I -- I’m just going to… get dressed.” 

“Maybe shower,” Jess says, lightly, “Just a suggestion.” 

Right. Something he definitely did _not_ do after either of the last two rounds of birthday sex yesterday evening. 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Will you -- watch the squash?” 

“Sure,” Sam says, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind, which is reasonable. 

“And the marrow and, I think there might be a pie crust -” 

“All things in the oven are being watched,” Jess says with a mock salute, “And, um, maybe we’ll clean up a little. Before all the… other people arrive.” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, expression pinched, “Thanks.” 

He had most definitely forgotten about the _other people._

* 

“Okay, Cas,” Dean says, barrelling through the front door of the apartment before Castiel is able to _warn him_ , “I am down with the housing buying, cause that’s gonna take a while. We can start saving and planning for that, or whatever, but we’re tabling the fucking marriage talk for _at least_ four months, and we’re taking back some of the goddamn panties because there’s no way in hell I need…” 

Castiel brain gets very stuck on _four months_ at the exact moment that Dean turns round from hanging up his coat, and registers that Sam, Jess, Charlie, Gabriel and Kevin are all sat in his front room. 

Dean drops his car keys. 

Castiel is very, very still for a few moments and then, because Dean is not the only one whose brain breaks sometimes, says the first thing that comes into his head. 

“Did you get the goats cheese?” 

There is an achingly loud pause during which Dean does not even attempt to pick up his keys or answer Castiel’s inane question about goats cheese, and Castiel realises that no one else is filling the black hole in this conversation, either. 

“Also…. Happy Birthday. Um. Surprise.” 

Dean looks a little like he might be having a stroke. 

“So,” Charlie says, after the silence has stretched out to the point of being painful, “Hey, Cas, why don’t you go talk to Dean about that thing outside, for a minute. You know, that _thing_ you were just… telling us about?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, because that is an _excellent idea_ and then he drags Dean out into the corridor by his arm and looks at him, not blinking. Dean has now turned slightly purple. It would be entertaining, if Castiel’s brain wasn’t resolutely repeating _four months_ over and over, and if he were turning purple for something that was much less personal and awful than accidentally revealing to his closest family and friends something as private as that he occasionally wears women’s underwear, and would consider resuming the conversation about marriage in _four months_. “Are you all right?” 

“Did that just -?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “Yes, it did.” 

“And -- Sam, and Jess?” 

“Yes,” 

“And…. Gabriel?” 

“Yes, he was also in attendance.” 

“Kevin?” Dean asks, “Oh, god. Oh, _fuck_. Why are they here?” 

“I,” Castiel begins, then swallows, “Dean, I may have organised you a birthday party in the midst of my aforementioned panic about how in love with you I am. Although in my defence, I didn’t foresee this as a consequence and, also, I forgot.” 

“You… you forgot that you planned me a surprise birthday party?” 

“Yes,” Castiel says, “I was very surprised when your brother turned up when I was wearing your underwear.” 

“Jesus,” Dean blinks, “Oh, _fuck_.” 

“They might think you were talking about my underwear,” 

“I appreciate the effort here, Cas, but that would make literally no sense,” Dean says, “Oh god, Gabriel knows you bought me fucking panties.” 

“You would be willing to talk about marriage in four months?” 

“Uh,” Dean says, the word sticking at the back his throat, “I mean, yeah.” 

“Oh,” Castiel says, a pleasing warmth settling over his chest, something giddy and terrifying and completely wonderful. “Dean, I know you’re having a crisis, but I’d really like to kiss you now.” 

Dean falls into it. Winds his arms around Castiel’s back and holds him, tight, with the bag of (presumably) goats cheese still in his left hand and… and this is good. This is excellent and as comforting and sustaining as Dean’s best winter stew; solid, surprising, lovely. 

“Allright,” Dean mutters into his skin after a little while. Probably too long for them to be in the corridor rather than in their apartment, but not long enough as far as Castiel is concerned, “We should probably, uh… face the hyenas. Celebrate my motherfucking birthday.” 

“Dean, I am sure no one will say anything,” 

“Uh, Cas, you’ve _met_ my brother, right? Scratch that, you’ve met _your_ brother. No chance in hell no one’s gonna say anything,” Dean says, squaring his shoulders and taking a few deep, steadying breaths, “You may not believe it, but this kind of bullshit didn’t happen to me before I met you.” 

“I like to think that I am worth it,” Castiel says, nudging him with his shoulder. 

“Just about,” Dean says, offering him an easy, barely self-conscious smile and takes his hand before they head back into the apartment. 

As it turns out, Gabriel is still laughing. 

Castiel throws the goats cheese at him. 

It does not help. 

* 

“You know,” Castiel says, as he picks around the room retrieving the laundry they shed all over their bedroom at various points in the past two days, pausing at the panties that ended up half under the bed. Dean is propped up against the pillows on their bed reading through Castiel's latest article for the food magazine before he sends it off to them, because Dean is an excellent boyfriend. “There are twelve months in the year.” 

“Hm?” Dean says, glancing up at him, just barely paying attention, “You really think the guy at the steak restaurant has masculinity issues?” 

“Dean,” Castiel says, mouth poised into an almost smile, “He called one of the options on the menu a ‘woman sized’ portion. Frankly, I'm astounded he's managed to avoid being branded a misogynist by the general populace.” 

“Huh,” Dean says, “Freaking sweet peppercorn sauce though,” 

“I wouldn't know, given you stole my steak.” 

“That is a damned lie. I had a bite of your steak, and you’ve been a baby about it for weeks,” 

“I was in the bathroom.” 

“You snooze you loose. Review’s good, Cas. Really good. Better than the review of that douchey vegan joy sucker,” Dean says, flipping Castiel's laptop shut, “Did you just tell me there are twelve months in the year?” 

“Yes.” 

“Thanks for the tip, Buddy,” Dean says, “Did you lose your mind again?” 

“I'm saying that perhaps we shouldn't return the underwear: twelve pairs, twelve months.” 

“We could do that,” Dean says, gaze tracking Castiel's progress round the edge of their bed. Castiel puts another pair of jeans in the hamper and vaguely considers that they should keep more on top of the laundry.. “Or,” Dean says, his fingers dipping under the waistband of his jeans and lowering them just enough for Castiel to see a shock or lace, “Or not.” 

“Have you been wearing those all day?” 

“Yep,” Dean says. 

“That is unacceptably hot,” Castiel says, and then he smiles, “And, snap.” 

Dean's easy expression of confidence flickers into a blank look of shock before he speaks again. Well, stutters, because Dean is so deliciously entertaining to rile up. 

“You,” Dean says, “You're _not_?” 

“I thought I'd try it, given we have a sudden plethora of options.” 

“Which ones?” Dean asks, his voice a little hoarse. 

“You may never know,” Castiel says, picking up the rest of the laundry and arching his back as he stands, because he know that Dean is watching his every movement and it’s entertaining and the best kind of satisfying. “I've missed seeing you flustered.” 

“You, shut up,” Dean says, “Fuck, you're hot.” 

“Thank you,” 

“Thanks for my birthday party,” Dean says, sitting up and crossing his legs, very deliberately. “Even if I nearly decked your brother,” 

“He would have deserved it. It was convenient that you cooked all that food, in the end.” 

“Yep,” Dean returns, “Ah, fuck. I have six messages from Sam about that future stuff he heard. Freakin’ bitch. Okay. Phone off.” 

“Probably for the best,” Castiel says, beginning to sort their laundry into lights and darks. “About the ‘freaky’ amount of women's underwear I purchased you…” 

“A pair of which you're wearing, right fucking now.” 

“Yes,” 

“That ain't how birthday presents work, you know,” Dean says, “Pretty sure I’m supposed to get first dibs.” 

“This way you get to unwrap them twice.” 

“Holy shit,” Dean says, or more, chokes on his own tongue. Castiel smirks at him. “You know, it's,” Dean says, “Uh, nine days till Bobby visits.” 

“Is it?” 

“And, if we've already taken out three pairs -” 

“ - How very convenient,” Castiel says, smiling slightly. “In which case, it's only logical that we keep all of them.” 

“We're taking back the goddamn socks.” 

“Absolutely not,” Castiel says, “You can take back the garlic crusher.” 

“Already used it,” Dean says, “Fuck it. We can start saving for this house shit next month. I like all the dumb crap you bought me, you freaking cute ass nut job.” 

“Okay,” Castiel says, smiling, “I can live with that.” 

“But you’re not getting me any dumbass things for Valentine’s Day, or my next two birthdays,” 

“No promises,” Castiel says, evenly. 

“Cas,” Dean says, “Screw the damn laundry and get over here and kiss me, you crazy asshole.” 

And, really, Castiel thinks, who could resist such poetry? 


	2. Chapter 2

“Wear the douchey corporate duds, Cas,” Dean says, voice carrying through from the kitchen as Castiel glares at his half of the wardrobe in their bedroom feeling distinctly distressed. Nevertheless, he takes out his ‘douchey corporate duds’ out of the wardrobe and sets them on the bed next to the shirt, slacks combination he was debating.

“You calling them douchey doesn't help.”

“It's a job interview, Cas,” Dean says, stepping into the room with a wooden spoon in his hand, tracking his way across the bedroom the long way round in a concentrated effort not to go anywhere his clothes on the bed. “You're supposed to wear a penguin suit and look like a dick. Here, try this sauce.”

“Is this your new method of distracting me?” Castiel says, accepting the spoon and continuing to frown at his options. Dean has thus far tried: offers of sex, offers of oral sex, terrible attempts at humour and logical reasoning, none of which have yet to breakthrough his current state of nerves.

It has been a valiant attempt at fulfilling his _don’t let me overthink this_ request. 

“Cas, they read your blog and asked you to come in for an interview for the job. You've got it nailed. How's the sauce?”

It is - delicious. Possibly the best thing Dean's ever cooked: secure, simmering warmth, generous and exciting.

“Fuck me,” Castiel says, quite seriously. “Right now.” 

Dean still flushes a delicious shade of pink whenever Castiel propositions him so directly. He’s aware that stems from Dean’s years of repression, but on some level he hopes that he will forever be able to make Dean _blush_. 

“Dude, if you're not gonna be helpful...”

“That is unacceptably good,” Castiel says, following him back into the kitchen to get another spoonful. Dean passes him a fresh spoon before he can get there, confiscating Castiel’s and dropping it into the sink. The second mouthful is even _better_. “This. What is the purpose of this _wonder_. Is this a proposal? Is it four months already?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“What?”

“Not the proposal bit,” Dean says, “But it is four months.” 

“What?” Castiel asks, surprised enough by that statement that he forgets, even, the wonder-sauce. 

“Uh, it's May. Four months,” Dean says, the very epitome of casual, before he wipes down the surface with his usual brand of elegance and passes Castiel a third spoon of sauce. “And _this_ is for my Autumn menu.” 

Castiel stares at him and takes the third spoon.

It’s probably the best thing he’s ever eaten. 

“Why would you tell me this, right now?”

“Well, now you're not freaking out about your job interview,” Dean says, steering Cas back into the bedroom with a hand on his lower back. “Put on your damn suit and hit the road, Cas.”

Castiel sighs and faces down his suit. It still fits, which is remarkable given the amount of food he is eaten since he started dating Dean Winchester.

And… Okay. He can do this, Castiel has _got this_ , particularly with the bubble of confidence that comes from Dean’s gaze skimming down the lines of his suit, drinking his appearance in like it quenches some deep rooted thirst (it’s worth filing that away for future reference; Dean likes him in a suit, and would probably try to suggest oral sex again if they weren’t now running too short on time). 

Dean leans forward to straighten up his tie, settling close in his personal space as he presses tupperware into his hands. 

“Dean, I'm too nervous to eat,” Castiel says, shifting closer to absorb a little of Dean’s body heat, more for confidence than actual warmth. _This_ job is the one he dreamed of when he left his hateful corporate tax career (or a variation of such; initially he was lofty and arrogant enough to assume that he would be writing about things like politics and current affairs, forgetting that he’s quite ignorant about both), and the opportunity had come by almost accidentally. 

They _had_ headhunted him from his blog. Dean has a point about this, as he often does. 

“It's a two hour drive at this time of day, sunshine,” Dean says, hands settling on his shoulders as he smiles at him. One of those proud, satisfied smiles that Castiel likes so much. “What kind of kick ass chef life partner would I be if I let you take on this job interview hangry?”

“I do not get hangry.”

“Whatever you say, Cas,” Dean smirks, “Well. Looking forward to seeing you later, when you're gonna be the editor of food and lifestyle at millennial asshats dot com.”

“You're an idiot,” Castiel says, shifting a little closer until they’re nearly chest-to-chest. Sometimes, Dean tends to position himself a little further away than he’d like to be. Castiel has no such qualms. “And a millennial and... I don't think I'll get the job.”

“Slid into your DMs to ask you to interview, Cas. They literally stalked you on social media and scoped you out.”

“Did you learn that terminology from Catfish?”

“Asshole,” Dean says, “You’re gonna kick it in the ass, and you deserve to, because you’re freaking hilarious, witty, insightful and a damn good writer. Last week you nearly had me considering vegan Mondays because of your stupidly good description of that quinoa bullshit, and you know full damn well I don't do hipster health crap.”

“It was delicious.”

“Now I’m doubting your opinion on this sauce.”

“You didn’t try the quinoa,” Castiel says, “And that sauce is the most delicious thing you have ever created. _That_ sauce knows exactly what it wants, and what it wants is to seduce me into missing my job interview and show off at the same time. It may change my answer to the ever unknowable _food or sex_ question.”

“Awesome,” Dean says, smile in place, “I put it in your sandwich.”

“I love you,” Castiel says, blinking at him.

“I know,” Dean winks, hands shifting to fix his collar (which is _fine_ ; Dean’s just trying to reassure him by physical touch which is an excellent tactic), then to run a thumb against the rough, or smooth, Castiel supposes given he actually shaved for this, of his cheek. “I would, you know.”

“What?” Castiel asks, too caught up in looking at the intoxicating green of Dean’s gaze to really be paying much attention to the words. He should have accepted his offer of distractionary oral sex, because Castiel is far too keyed up not to begin worrying about this interview incessantly the second he gets in the car. He needs to enter _zen_ mode, because otherwise he will likely start to overthink and stumble over his words and generally make himself look moronic. 

He needs to think about something else. Politics, sex, food. Anything, really. 

He needs _a distraction_. 

“Propose,” Dean says, and then, “Knock em’ dead, Sweetheart.” 

_And that will do it._

*

The job interview goes remarkably well. 

*

Dean doesn't pick up his call until the tenth ring, which is enough time for the clawing worry about the job interview to creep back up on him, even though it’s _done_ and he never has to go through that exact interview experience again. And, hopefully, no interviews at all for a long time.

It was most definitely the best interview experience of his life. The main meat of the questions were them challenging him to tell them a story they didn’t already know from the blog that would make them laugh, emotional and have a take away message: Castiel looked the chief interview straight in the eye and said _a food critic and a closeted chef walk into a gay bar_ and from there it was remarkably easy (the blog _hints_ of the story, particularly the version of Dean’s guest blog he put up, but Castiel decided that keeping the mystery surrounding that particular series of events added to the allure of the blog. The version he tells in his interview has garlic bread motifs and ends with him frantically buying birthday presents). Talking _about_ Dean is easy, and his blog has long since been more about Dean than food, and telling this story in its technicolor glory makes him happy.

“Hey,” Dean says, in that special voice that Castiel has only ever heard him use when they’re alone; stripped of his usual bravado, affection leaking out of every word. This is the voice that renders Castiel into an impulse buying mess and the voice that told him to _sell the review_ with such belligerent determination. “How did it go?”

“I think we should get married,” Castiel says, straight off the bat.

He is aware that these things are usually done with more finesse, but ever since this morning his brain has been alight and whirring with the thought of it. Of _marrying Dean Winchester_ , of Dean Winchester proposing, and of one day telling their children the ridiculous story of how they got together, rather than the interviewer from one of the fastest growing online newspapers/magazine startups Castiel has stumbled across over the past few years. 

“What?” Dean asks, “Cas. What happened with the job?”

“Oh, I got it,” Castiel says, distracted. He pulled over into a gas station in order to have this conversation, and he does _know_ that he is not thinking entirely rationally right now, but he is entirely sure he doesn’t care. Some things don’t need to be rational. “Dean, marry me.”

“Okay,” Dean says, “Wait -- you got the job? Dude, that's awesome.”

“I told them I didn't want it,” Castiel says.

“ _What_??” 

“Dean, it's nine to five a two hour drive away. You have to work weekends. I, I would never see you ---”

“ - We can work that stuff out. Cas. Call ‘em back, tell them you want it. I can, well. We'd work out something,”

“I _hate_ commuting.” 

“We can move,”

“Your restaurant can't move,” Castiel says, “And if you get any less sleep I think you'll die.”

“Okay, total fucking exaggeration. Cas. What the hell? This is your dream job.”

“I know,” Castiel says, “I’m aware of that, but, Dean. It wasn't worth it. I sat there and realised that I don't care about that, if it meant seeing less of you--- and, Dean, I'm happy. I didn’t know that I could be happy and dislike my job situation at the same time, but…. I am. I’m happy. Very happy, and I want to marry you ---”

“Okay, “ Dean says, “Sure, but - Cas, we need to talk about this kind of shit before you going turning down dream jobs.”

“I didn’t _know_ I was going to do it,” Castiel implores, because the last thing Castiel wants right now is Dean to be irritated about him not being included in decisions. That wasn’t the intention, but it suddenly all felt very _obvious_ and certain. “I had barely processed that they had offered me a job and my mouth had already turned it down, but - I need to call Anna,” Castiel says, then hangs up, some nauseating, pleasant adrenaline sloshing around in his stomach, but -- Anna needs to know about this. Anna needs to know about the second, terrifying epiphany that Castiel is having in regards to Dean, because she is always supposed to know about these things. 

Anna picks up the phone faster than Dean.

“Castiel, how was the job interview ?”

“Exceptionally good,” Castiel says, “Anna, I don't care about the job, I just-- I'm in love with Dean.” 

“Yes, Castiel, we know,” Anna says, affectionately teasing and happy. Anna likes Dean. She likes his cooking and his steadfast loyalty, and she doesn’t like when those tendrils of closetedness creep up on him, but those happen so rarely these days it’s difficult to contemplate the fact that the Dean Winchester of twelve months ago would probably have denied any attraction to men whatsoever. 

They met in late May last year. He doesn't remember the date, but he could find out from his blog. It feels like much, much longer than that, because Dean somehow wormed his way into all the spaces in Castiel’s life until it didn’t feel like it was empty anymore. 

He has only known that Dean existed for an entire year. That is an impossible thing to consider.

“I mean,” Castiel says, “The rest of it feels so -- irrelevant. I just want to, I don't know -- am I being insane?”

“Yes,” Anna says, “It's a good look on you, Castiel. You should keep wearing it.”

“What?” 

“It suits you,” Anna says, “Castiel, what brought this on?”

_Dean_. That sauce. Telling three perfect strangers about Dean fumbling spilling his coffee all over himself in Gabriel’s cafe, just after Sam discovered that Castiel was not, in fact, a woman. The concept of spending four hours every day in a car, rather than in their apartment, for a job that he had so fundamentally believed was _finally_ his shot at having a career again, and suddenly realising with aching clarity that it was not worth it. 

“I turned down the job, because I would miss Dean and -” Castiel trails off, tightens his grip on the steering wheel of his car in the gas station parking lot, as some of the last hour of his life begin to catch up with again. Saying _I’m sorry for wasting your time, but I don’t think I can accept this position_. Driving part of the way home in a daze before pulling over because he needed, inherently and absolutely to speak to Dean. “ -- I think I just proposed to him. Over the phone.”

_Oh._

“Did he say yes?”

He said _okay_. 

“Anna, I need to call you back---” Castiel says, fumbling with his phone badly enough that he drops it on his lap before he manages to hang up, just long enough for to hear Anna’s peal of laughter from the other end of the line.

Charlie answers Dean's phone the second time. 

“Batgirl speaking,” Charlie says, cheerfully.

“Is - you're not Dean.”

“Astute as ever,” Charlie says, “Dean's in the kitchen. Hey, is this about your big job interview ? How did it go ?”

“Dean's at work?” Castiel asks. He doesn’t remember Dean saying that he was supposed to be at work, but his head has been intensely full of interview prep and overthinking for three days, so it’s not surprising he didn’t realise. It _does_ explain why he took so long to answer the first time, though. Dean slipping out of the kitchen mid-service in order to ask Castiel about his job interview. Dean is effortlessly thoughtful and _kind_. 

“Yep, left his phone in the office,” Charlie says, “Wait. Hey, you. New kitchen guy. After you’ve scrubbed up, can you go hold this to Dean's ear? His boyfriend needs to speak to him -”

“Charlie-” Castiel begins to protest, but then it seems he has already been passed to ‘ _New kitchen guy’_. 

“Will someone get me some goddamn garlic bread?” Dean's voice asks, half muffled, but still very recognisably his kitchen voice. Authoritative and in control and deeply, deeply attractive. Dean will rarely entertain them having conversations during dinner service , but sometimes Castiel likes to push the boundaries. A _proposal_ seems like enough of an emergency to constitution a conversation, especially given Thanksgiving counted. 

“I've got three burgers dying out here, and I ain't trashing them in the name of fucking garlic bread. Hustle people, what --- did Charlie?”

“Hello, Dean,” 

“I - hey Cas. Look, Tim, this really ain't your job. If Charlie asks you to do dumb stuff like this, tell her -- tell her no, okay? Because -- wait, Cas, can you give me two minutes?”

In any normal circumstances, Castiel thinks he would be able to comply by this request. 

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Did we just get engaged?”

“Uh,” Dean says, “Maybe,” He continues, his voice slightly strangled, “I honestly don't have a clue what's-- fucking finally on the garlic bread. Move a little damn quicker, Duke - but, uh. We should probably talk about this but, Tim, a little closer? NO, don't put it on speaker, fuck. This is a way private… Okay, Tran. You're up. Five minutes… Cas, about your job. Look, man, I don't want you giving up crap because I'm a workaholic. I am so not okay with that , so -”

“ - Dean, it doesn't matter.”

“It really does, Cas.”

“No, I mean it doesn't matter because after I turned it down because of the distance they said I could work remotely providing I come to the office twice a month,” Castiel says, “And they offered me more money. I start on Monday, depending on if I can get out of my current contract without working notice.” 

“You, _what??_ ”

“They already gave me a work laptop,”

“Dude, fucking lead with that? Holy crap. I'm getting whiplash so hard right now. Wow.”

“Dean,” Cas says, “Are we engaged?”

“I - yes?” Dean says, “I mean, maybe --” 

“It feels like something we should know,” Castiel says, “Like there should be something official.”

“Pretty sure you don't sign the shit until the next bit.”

“Does there need to be a ring for it to count?” Castiel asks. 

“Cas, I ain't exactly done this before.”

“No,” Castiel says, “Me neither.”

“I _have_ a ring though,” Dean says, “And -”

And then Charlie squeals on the other end of the phone like she's losing her mind.

“ - Sonuvabitch, Charlie, right in my damn ear -”

“You have a ring?” Castiel asks.

“I literally told you this fucking morning that I was gonna propose. Way to steal my goddamn thunder.”

“It sounded -- hypothetical “

“Well, it wasn't,” Dean says, “Cas-”

“Where's the ring?”

“Here. At the restaurant.” 

“I’m coming there,” Castiel says, and hangs up again. 

*

For reasons unknown, a broad shouldered man with a southern accent waylays him before he can get into Dean's backroom, and it is highly inconvenient when he is almost entirely sure that he just got _engaged_ , and he needed to see Dean at least an hour ago. 

Dean has a _ring_. “- Chief, this crazy aunt’s trying to get into your damn kitchen -” The man says, holding out an arm to block him from the door. A large number of Dean’s patrons are looking at him, but it wouldn’t be the first time he’s made a scene here. Castiel is sure there’s a more logical way to deal with this situation than to continue to try and _push past him_ when it’s quite evident that whoever-it-is is a wall of a man who has no intention of letting him pass, but --- today is a very _good_ day. A ridiculous and insane day, which is par for the course when it comes to their relationship. 

“ --- I need to speak to Dean.”

“Oh, hey Cas,” Charlie says cheerfully, a stack of empty glasses in her arms, “Benny, this is --” 

“ --- _Cas,_ ,” Dean exhales, stepping out of the kitchen with the most recent formation of his steak burger in his right hand. “Hey.” 

“ _Brother_ , you know this guy?”

“You are _not_ Dean’s brother.”

“Stand down, Benny, this is Cas. My boyfriend.”

“ _Fiancé_ ,” Castiel corrects.

Dean stares at him for long enough that Castiel thinks he’s going to drop the burger. It suddenly occurs to him that there is a restaurant full of people and a large number of Dean’s employees looking at them and that, perhaps, Dean wanted to discuss this and digest it before declaring to the world that the distant between him and the closet he spent most of his life in is now such that he would _propose_ (if Castiel hadn’t done it first). But, then Dean’s face breaks out into a gorgeous, uncensored smile that’s better than any sauce or anything Castiel’s mother ever cooked. 

“Right,” Dean says, “My fiancé.” 

It is a _very good day_. 

*

Dean is quiet, but not _not-happy_ , and Castiel is so distracted by how happy he is that he doesn’t notice until they’re a significant way through their dinner of restaurant leftovers bought home and reheated (a frequent staple of their diet: Dean tends to re-do the menu whenever he can't stand eating his own food every time he's too lazy to cook and doesn't feel like subjecting himself to Castiel's attempts). Castiel’s been rereading the contract that head of HR sent over to him several hours ago, trying to force himself into taking in details about days holiday and sick pay with minimal success, while Dean just _sits_ and looks at his phone.

“Are you going to call your brother?” Castiel asks, forwarding the contract to all of his brothers with a law degree, because they are utterly unreasonable about Castiel signing anything without it being tripled checked. He assumes that they will pick up from that that he got the job, if Anna hasn’t already told everyone. “Dean,” Castiel says, nudging him under the table with his foot, “You’re overthinking something. What it is?” 

“What?” Dean asks, turning his phone over so that it’s face down, and looking up at him with his eyebrow raised; a fairly common first defence when Dean doesn’t want to discuss something, but doesn’t want to _not_ discuss something either, and has no idea where that he leaves him.

“Dean,” Castiel says, “You stopped eating.”

“I’m… not hungry,” Dean says, standing up and taking his plate to the dishwasher, hovering in the kitchen, staring at the hob without really seeing it and… Castiel doesn’t know what’s going on in Dean’s head, but he knows that he’s not leaving him in the kitchen to dwell.

Not hungry, indeed.

Castiel follows him into the kitchen, slips his hand into Dean’s and drags him towards to the sofa. Dean very rarely puts up a pretence against cuddling on the sofa, even if he sometimes makes a token effort to make some destainful remark about cuddling in bed that Castiel is sure is now well-worn joke than an actual attempt at a complaint at this point, and follows him willingly. Pulls Castiel closer after he settles under his arm, smothering his exhale in Castiel’s hair.

“Getting engaged is a very large step for someone who was in the closet less than a year ago.”

“That --- actually hadn’t even occurred to me,” Dean says, running a thumb over Castiel’s knuckles and settling with his thumb over his ring finger. “You have a remarkable way of making that crap feel really unimportant.” 

“It’s not unimportant if it has an impact on how you feel.”

“It’s not that,” Dean says, jaw clenched. “Look, Cas. You know I hate this talking crap as much as the next person. More than the next person, most of the damn time, and. I don't want you thinking I'm not happy about this, because I fucking am, but --- I really screwed up today,” Dean says, slow, painful, like he’s teasing the words out of his mouth, “And it feels like it worked out by plain dumb luck, but --- I shouldn’t’ve said anything this morning and.... And, fuck.”

“Dean, I’m listening.”

“Today was -- it was supposed to be about you,” Dean says, “I just said that stuff about freaking proposals to distract you and I shouldn’t’ve done it.” 

“But,” Castiel says, his chest tight, “You… you did _intend_ to? You had a ring.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah. Cas, freaking _obviously_.”

“Good,” Castiel says, “Continue your misplaced apology.”

“It’s not misplaced, Cas,” Dean says, sitting up slightly, expression frustrated. “You should be pissed off. I made some dumb throwaway remark about getting married and you go into that job interview with your head fucked, and I should’ve _known_ that given all that crap with the lingerie.” 

“I asked you to distract me,”

“There’s _distract you_ , and there’s sending you into the biggest interview of your career without your head screwed on.”

“I got everything I wanted today.”

“Some-fucking-how,” Dean says, “Fuck, Cas, don’t get me wrong. This working remotely, one day in the office thing is probably the best thing that could’ve _happened_. Better outcome than I could’ve dreamed of and I am goddamn _thrilled_ that they wanted you so damn much that they made this all flexible, but --- you _risked_ your goddamn career on a fucking whim. I am not okay with you giving up stuff like for me. I’m just not and I can’t act like I’m feeling all fuzzy about this.” 

“If I'd accepted the job then I would never have seen you -”

“- --- you think that didn't occur to me _already_?” Dean says, “That’s pretty much the first thing I thought. Second thing after _hey this awesome, my bad ass boyfriend kicks ass_.”

“You didn’t mention it,” Castiel says, tilting his head in Dean’s direction, some of his giddy-joy dispersing a little as he takes in the fact that Dean is definitely perturbed by something, and surprisingly difficult to work out at this current moment. It’s been a long time since Dean has been difficult for Castiel to read. “You were… waiting for me to catch up? No, you didn’t think it would bother me. Dean -”

“ I --- both and neither,” Dean says, swallowing, “You’re usually better at figuring me out, this point.”

Castiel squints at him. Dean is… not unhappy, but not happy. He’s frustrated in the way that probably means that he is much better at articulating how he’s feeling inside his head than out loud (Castiel has learned when to wait him out and when to push, for the large part), and there is definitely _something_ in this that’s rooted in his insecurities, but Castiel isn’t sure he could make a guess at which. “Knew you’d _care_ , didn’t know you’d care enough to pull this self-sacrificial routine,”

Castiel frowns at him. 

“I’m in love with you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” 

“Yeah, Cas, I know. I remember all the socks, ” Dean says, “It’s just --- in my head, we were gonna sit down and talk about it when you got the job, or… after the interview. We were gonna talk about what it would look like _tonight_ , and I didn’t…. I didn’t want to rob you of being excited about this, Cas, because I wanted…. Wanted how passionate and badass you are to come across in the interview. Didn’t want you second guessing _us_ in the interview, except then I spilled all that proposal crap, so I guess I screwed it up twice. Three times over. _Fuck_ , I’m bad at this relationship shit.”

“I don’t understand what you’re supposed to have screwed up,”

“I,” Dean begins, then cuts himself off with a frustrated sigh, “Just -- look.”

Dean passes him his phone, unlocked and opened on a text message exchange with his brother. Long, lengthy messages that begin with Dean typing out _hey, bitch. You free for me to talk to you about something?_ , references Castiel’s job interview and takes a length diversion into business-talk that Castiel doesn’t register is part of the same conversation until most of the way through. Looking at the time stamps, they must have had a phone call part way through the messages; in the midst of Sam’s lunch break at the lawyer firm, it looks like, which means Dean must have skipped service in order to exchange these messages. _Numbers are good. Up on the last couple of years, growth WAY up on last year. Refurb + Pam have effectively paid for themselves. This month is a little stagnant, but new menu = spike in turnover_ Dean typed out to his brother, the day after Castiel received the offer of an interview in his inbox. _Okay timing?_ Dean asked. _First off, you KNOW I’m not a business expert, right? Second, there’s no GOOD timing for a business. There’s good timing for you, though, and that’s pretty important. The fact that we’re having the conversation is kind of a miracle. What does Charlie think?_. 

_Uh, haven’t talked to Charlie yet, BUT we were talking about getting new senior wait staff sometime soon, so I was thinking I talk to her about finding someone who could grow into running the whole front of house. Pam’s got the kitchen covered, pretty much, so reckon I could cut down days in the kitchen to 2 or 3 and drop a day overall. Could at least take Sundays off. You think it’s possible_?

“Dean,” Castiel says, evenly, “What is this?”

Dean rubs a hand over his face and blinks, swallows. Castiel is practically sat in his lap and doesn’t really know how to react, because ---

“I’m not _ignorant_ to the fact that you snarking at me about my working hours since day one is at least a little bit based on an actual problem,” Dean says, eventually, “And that your three job, working from home, here and there thing is pretty much the only reason it works. But that’s _my problem_ , Cas. That’s not a reason for you to turn down a perfectly good nine till five and I --- we’re a _team_ ,” Dean says, “Didn’t think _you’d_ think the only option was to turn it the fuck down.”

“You were making arrangements to reduce your hours, because you’d already anticipated this problem.” 

“Yeah,” Dean says, chewing the words around his mouth and closing his eyes for a brief second, “I love my goddamn restaurant, Cas, I do, but - you’re my top priority.”

Castiel leans forwards and kisses him, softly, to taste that expression of vulnerability that Dean only wears on special occasions. Dean’s still frustrated and distracted enough that he doesn’t really kiss him back, but he does shift the hand on his hip to shift them a little closer. 

“Cas,” Dean says, voice still packed with frustration, “I’m serious about this.”

“I know,” Castiel says, tilting his head at him and taking Dean in in all his soft, irritated glory. “I do know that.”

“You could have fucked up your _life_.”

“I don’t consider prioritising our relationship ‘fucking up’ my life,” Castiel says, “Dean, _I_ know that you are perfectly serious about this, but --- Dean, the restaurant is your _business_. You poured your soul into it. I… I didn’t know that it was possible for you to pull back without harming the business.”

“Well, it ain’t,” Dean says. Castiel frowns at him. “It --- it’s _not_ possible without shit costing more money to run and probably a couple of teething issues that are coming straight out of my bank account, but, damnit Cas, I’m not saying I don’t _care_ about that, because I do, and there’s wages I gotta pay and if we stop turning a profit all together I’m fucked, but I’m saying I already did the math and decided it was _worth_ it so you could do your dream job without us basically doing a long distance relationship from the same apartment and then you --- then you go and _turn down the fucking job_ like a self-sacrificial asshole, without even considering that I would --- that _obviously_ I’d take a business hit for you.” 

“I,” Castiel begins, then swallows, “I underestimated you. Again.”

“Well, will you _quit_ it?”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, a tendril of warmth spreading outwards from his chest, smile widening, “Dean, no one has ever been prepared to give something like that up for me before.”

“ _That_ is a some fucking bullshit, right there,” Dean says, “You --- you deserve better.”

“Hmm,” Castiel says, settling against Dean’s solid warmth, “Not everyone is as unwaveringly loyal as you, Dean. Your capacity to sacrifice your needs for others has always amazed me.”

“And, what, you just didn’t think it applied to you?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, “Are we really arguing over who gets to to sacrifice their career progression to benefit our relationship?” 

“Yes,” Dean says, snappishly. “You get a pretty raw deal, here.”

“Are you devaluing yourself again?” Castiel asks, frowning at him.

“I - Cas. You being okay with fitting our relationship around my seventy hour weeks, alongside all my crap —“

“I think you underestimate how much a value a live in chef,”

“I’m serious,”

“I know,” Castiel says, “but it’s patently ridiculous. I am in love with you, you assbut, and your determination to not be happy about us getting engaged is beginning to be profoundly irritating.”

“Oh, I am fucking thrilled about that, Sunshine,” Dean says, “I’m just freaking _pissed_ that you seem to have no goddamn idea about what I’d do for you, even though I thought I was pretty damn clear.”

“ - I,” Castiel begins, then cuts himself off, “Dean, this is the equivalent of us turning the you hang up first debate into an actual argument. Please can we agree that we are both very much love struck idiots?”

“Fine,” Dean says.

“And,” Castiel says, “I would still like you to drop Sundays, if you are still willing.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, “I — of course, man.”

“For _your sake._ You need to rest more.”

“Nagging me already, huh? We’re not married yet, ah —- shit. I gotta call Sam,” Dean says, “Like, _hours ago_ , fuck. The whole damn restaurant knows about this before my damn brother —--”

“Ah,” Castiel says, allowing Dean to reclaim his phone from the sofa, even though he would really _really_ prefer it if they could delay any further conversations until they have made out. There has definitely been a dearth of _necking_ since they got home. “I believe the term is _my bad_.” 

Dean offers him a warm, affectionate look that reminds him very much of his mother bringing him toast in bed when he was sick; that distinct sense of being loved.

“Hey Sammy, you’re on speaker,” Dean says, with one hand distractedly tracing the vertebrates in Castiel’s spine.

“Hello, Sam,”

“Oh, hey guys,” Sam says, “How was the job interview?”

“Dumbass idiot got the job, then turned it down to save our damn relationship.”

“You’re forgetting the part where they offered me more money to work remotely.”

“Oh,” Dean says with an eye roll, “It’s almost like that’s an important part of the damn story —”

“ - I was distracted!”

“Distracted. You gave me a damn heart attack.”

“This is a gross misinterpretation of events.”

“Uh, you proposed, told me you’d rejected the job offer and then hung up, asshole —”

“ - I had to speak to Anna.”

“- then you come barging into my damn restaurant, nearly knock out my new employee and demand a freaking ring in front of the whole joint.”

“Yes, well, you started it.”

“Uh, no freaking way, Cas _, you_ made that comment about proposals this morning, not a damn thing to do with me —”

“ — it was a throwaway remark!”

“Then throw it the crap away, don’t spontaneously ask me to freaking marry you. Over the damn phone.”

“Um,” Sam says, “You guys know that you called me, right?”

“Oh, right,” Dean says, “Cas got the job and we’re engaged now. Man, I am starving —- maybe we should go out for dinner.”

“We already _had_ dinner.”

“Congratulations,” Sam says, his voice thick with amusement and love. “Hey, you serious about dinner?”

“Sammy, when have I ever not been serious about food?” 

“My boss represents that place down on Bleaker street and last week we stopped a corporate take over of their restaurant group, and he said that ---”

“ --- _Sammy_ , are you serious right now? You can get us a table?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Holy _shit_ , Sam, that freaking steak. Cas, get Charlie and Gabriel on board and put on your douche corporate duds, we’re going to mother-fucking- _celebrate_ \---- Sam, you and Jess better get your asses down there, too.” 

“- _duh_ , Dean,” Sam says, “My brother’s getting freaking _married_.” 

“Damn _right_ ,” Dean says, “My man’s a kick ass lifestyle editor, my brother’s a kick ass a lawyer, my restaurant _kicks burger ass_ and I’m gonna get me some _steak_.” Dean continues, pulling Castiel to his feet with his brother still on speaker. “Bobby is gonna freak. You reckon we can get him in one of the mother of the bride hats?”

“You’re a bride now?” Sam smirks. 

“Fuck off, bitch,” Dean says, smiling widely as he ceremoniously hangs up and chucks his phone onto their bed. “Dude, I’m gonna marry you so freaking hard,” Dean says, pulling him in for a kiss, “But, first, _freaking steak_.” 

And, really, who could resist such charm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because, well, why end things at the end?

**Author's Note:**

> Accidentally took a day off my NaNo to write this because... well, I did promise you guys more panties originally, and it's only fair that we get to see Castiel lose his mind a bit too ;)


End file.
